Afterlife
by Torithy
Summary: Safety in numbers was the old way, but now the rules have changed and the walkers aren't the only danger out there.
1. One: No naked flames

**Author's Note: So I've been having a clear-out of both my account and my laptop, consigning stories to the bin and salvaging others that have been neglected. This is one of the latter kind. It's my first/only Walking Dead fic, so I'd love to know what you think. I did start it quite a while ago, so it's set back in the "good ole days" on the farm. Thanks for reading! :)**

* * *

**Afterlife**

_All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,_  
_And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier._  
_- Walt Whitman_

**One: No naked flames**

He was going to shake his son until his teeth rattled. If they both got out of this alive, that was.

His head twisting from side to side, Rick Grimes took in the carnage in front of him and swore under his breath. The pistol he was carrying felt too heavy for his hand and he dashed an arm across his forehead, finding it damp with sweat. He'd known this was a possibility, finding the dilapidated gas station not so abandoned after all. That was exactly why he'd forbidden Carl to come with them when they left the relative sanctity of the farm to try refuelling a few of their vehicles.

Although the boy had been sullen over his refusal to discuss the issue, it hadn't crossed the sheriff's mind for a second that his son would stow away under a tarp in the back of one of the pick-up trucks.

"You got any idea how irresponsible you've been? Huh, do ya? Do ya know that?" Rick had snapped, his harsh tone born out of fear and the certainty that his wife would be going out of her mind back at their base camp.

The last place either of them had wanted their child was in the middle of this shit-storm.

Now wasn't the time for reprimands though. Not with mutilated walkers in the throes of blind blood-lust bearing down on them from all sides as they cowered behind an old van. Above the chilling sound of moans, something whistled through the air and they watched a crossbow bolt quiver as it buried itself in the forehead of what had once been a plump mechanic in overalls that were too small for him. It dropped to its knees and then collapsed face first, dying – properly this time – even before the fall drove the bolt further into its brain.

"Ain't got time for this shit," the redneck with the deadly aim drawled from behind them. "Best be gettin' our asses the hell outta Dodge – I ain't wastin' no more arrows on these bastards."

And with that, Daryl hefted up the nearest thing he could use as a weapon, wielding the heavy spanner like a bat and striding out from their hiding place to catch the next walker to get close under the chin – the upwards swing taking its head clean off. The meaty sound of rotting flesh detaching from bone was sickening, but all too familiar by now. Maybe that was disturbing in itself.

"Stay behind me," Rick warned his son, with a grim look that said he was serious on his face. He holstered his gun and grabbed a thick wooden post that had probably once held the faded 'No naked flames' sign that now lay on the ground. Still trying to look every which way at once, he set off across the lot with the trembling youngster clutching a fistful of his shirt. "We're getting out of this, Carl, you hear me? We're getting outta here."

He didn't doubt that the boy was rueing the moment he'd ever thought he wanted to be treated more like a man.

Another look around showed the rest of their small group – his best friend Shane and T-Dog – also following Daryl's lead and arming themselves with anything they could to conserve their ever more precious ammunition.

"Dad!" Carl choked out, his voice high with terror and sending Rick spinning round to crack a walker across its already wounded face. The boy cringed as the nail that was still embedded in the wood snagged a chunk of flesh and ripped down to the bone, sending dark red blood spraying through the air in a thick, congealing arc. It still took a second and then a third swing of the makeshift weapon to finish it.

For all the very real threat they posed, at least the walkers were a known quantity. The survivors had soon learned that they were slow and clumsy on their feet and best dispatched by going for the brain, not the heart. But it was only after all the undead seemed to have been dealt with that they came to realise the walkers weren't the only thing they had to defend themselves against.

That was when the first shot rang out.

* * *

At first, Rick hadn't been sure he could one hundred percent blame the group of men who were armed to the teeth and looking, in their camouflage gear and bandanas, like they meant business. Hadn't they also thought about defending the farm from outsiders and worried over who they might be able to trust if newcomers should present themselves?

Yet while Shane, Daryl and T-Dog had been strongly in favour of seeing off any other survivors, he had been among the minority who remembered that they had themselves once been the strangers in need of help from the farm's owner. And, even though he had been deeply reluctant, Hershel had given them food and shelter.

But now, with nowhere to run and surrounded by bodies, it was immediately clear there would be no negotiations.

These men weren't interested in adding to their numbers or swapping survivor stories. They had claimed the gas station as their own and - judging by the gunshots that continued to blast across the forecourt, despite the risk of the sound attracting more walkers - they wanted the intruders gone. In the most permanent sense.

"Dad, look," Carl said, this time his tone a shocked hush that somehow made his father look round despite the bullets flying through the air.

In a world where hacking mutilated people to death before they got the chance to kill you with their bare hands or teeth had become almost routine, the sight still drew a sharp intake of breath. The sheriff pushed his son further behind him. Eleven years old was much too young to witness any of this, but old sensibilities somehow rendered the half-naked body of a beaten young woman that little bit worse.

The walkers were at least out of their minds - sick from some mystery virus maybe, something unseen and beyond their control. But the men who were responsible for this ... They were crazed only by lust and violence.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

* * *

"You got your boy to worry about," Shane was saying as they huddled together in the gloom of the gas station bathroom, judgement written all over his face. "Lori to think about gettin' back to. Ain't that enough?"

"We can't just leave her there," Rick hissed. "She ain't dead."

"Good as," came the ruthless retort from the man who'd dragged both him and Carl away from the seemingly lifeless body and into the building out of harm's way. "How d'ya know she ain't bit? She could be infected – you gonna take that to the farm? She might not even make it that far. You saw her, the broad's spark out ..."

"So we leave her for _them_? We're cops, man," the sheriff tried, desperate in his need to believe that they could hold onto some shred of humanity towards others. God knows he needed that. "We're supposed to _help_ people."

"Yeah, well, that was before the world went to shit_,_" Shane snapped, raking a hand over his shaved head. "You wanna help people so bad? Indulge that hero complex? Start with your goddamn _family!_"

Rick bore the sting of the fierce words in silence, his head down as he tried to ignore the occasional shout or burst of deep bellowing laughter that came from outside. Weighing up the options, he was acutely aware of his son's earnest gaze looking up at him and could all but feel the others watching too.

"I have to go get her," he said finally, looking Shane square in the face as the tension hung heavy between them. "If she's bit ... that's different. But we just don't know and I gotta at least try. I ain't asking you to come with me."

His best friend turned away in something like disgust, but Rick ignored him and crouched down to speak to his boy eye-to-eye. "Stay close to Shane, okay, buddy?" Despite their difference of opinion, he still trusted the other man with his son's life. Even if he didn't exactly like the reason behind that.

"But dad-"

"But nothing, Carl. I'm coming back, I promise. Just do this for me. Stay with Shane."

And then, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the task ahead, he was heading for the door. Already trying to figure out in his head how he was going to grab the girl without drawing attention to them both, he heard the light footsteps behind him and turned, fully prepared to have to order Carl back, only to find Daryl instead.

"Gimme your gun," the redneck said with his usual shortness and without meeting his eyes, keeping the crossbow slung secure across his back. "Can't carry the girl and keep yourself covered, can ya?"

Conceding the point, Rick appreciated the unexpected help, but realised Daryl wouldn't thank him for any flowery expression of gratitude. Instead, he settled for nodding towards the stack of tyres where the young woman had either dragged herself or been dumped. "We get behind there, they ain't gonna be able to get at us without breaking cover themselves."

"And if they do ..." Daryl said, a dangerous look in his narrowed eyes. "Locked and loaded."

"If they do come after us, you guys head for the fleet," Rick added to the others. "Get those engines running."

"And what? You jump in, we take off and lose the other two sets of wheels? This is a piss-poor plan, man. 'Specially when we could all be gettin' the hell outta here right now," Shane scowled from where he was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest.

"I ain't leavin' my bike behind," Daryl said, the determination on his face leaving no room for argument. "We'll get the damn girl and we'll all still get out, with or without any help from your whinin' ass. Let's move."

Knowing better than to let the hot-headed Shane get into some kind of pissing contest with the equally hot-headed hunter, Rick took a last look at his son's scared face and slipped out the door with Daryl on his heels.

* * *

It had been easy, too easy.

Getting to the girl, crouched as low to the ground as they could while still moving swiftly, had gone without a hitch and there still wasn't a sign of their unexpected adversaries. Neither man was naive enough to think they'd gone, but they still took advantage of the opportunity to survey the body once they'd reached it. Much as Rick had argued his view of the situation with Shane, he couldn't deny that the man had a point about the risk of infection.

But while it was all too clear that the young woman – Rick guessed her at being in her mid-twenties maybe – had been through hell, there was no sign of the usual tell-tale gaping wounds. Just a split lip, a multitude of grazes and vicious bruises marring the smooth tan skin of her stomach, her neck, her cheekbone, her wrists ... her thighs.

The sight made him clench his fists and shake his head in silent, angered disbelief that humanity could turn on itself - even at a time like this when survival, _unity_, should have been everything.

"Shit ..." Daryl's low growl came from beside him, as his eyes darted uncomfortably over the exposed slender form. "Helluva mess. You sure she ain't dead?"

Rick crouched beside her, checking her pulse and noting the delicate silver necklace bearing the name Ava as he did so, before nodding. "Pulse is weak, but it's there. We gotta get her outta here and fast."

"You sure?"

"Those look like walker bites to you?" the sheriff asked, glancing up at him.

Not seeming to need another look to know he was talking about the bites on her neck and across the tops of her breasts, just above her bra, Daryl shook his head. "Got a name for the pricks behind this, but it sure ain't walker."

Taking that as consent to see out his plan, in so far as it could be called a plan, Rick stripped off the shirt he'd worn over a wifebeater and tried to cover the girl as best he could. Managing to prop her in a slumped sitting position of sorts, he somehow slid her arms into the sleeves while Daryl kept watch and he'd only fastened two of the buttons when a sharp warning sent him to his feet.

"Time to quit playin' dress-up," the hunter urged, just as a shot rang out and ricocheted off a discarded car door nearby. "Gotta hustle, man."

Struggling with the unconscious little brunette in his urgency to find the easiest way to manage her, Rick draped one of her arms around his shoulders and hauled her upright. He was trying to be as gentle as he could, but knew he'd still end up half dragging her dead weight and that was going to seriously hinder their escape ...

"Jesus Christ," Daryl muttered, shoving the borrowed gun back into its owner's hand in his impatience before shrugging off his crossbow and handing it over as well. "Give her here. She's what - a buck twenty soaking wet?"

And with that, he unceremoniously ducked to set a shoulder to her stomach and hoisted her with ease into a fireman's lift as he straightened up. "Now, fuckin' _move!_"

* * *

He'd thought that was how it was going to end. That after everything, they'd be gunned down like animals by fellow survivors.

As Rick stumbled after Daryl's swiftly moving form, it still felt like some surreal nightmare. Sure, they had guns and foraged clothes and okay, the fleet of pick-ups were technically stolen. But everything they'd done had been purely to survive, to make the most of what little was left of the world they'd once known and taken for granted.

Who the hell were these guys with their combat gear and their shoot-first-ask-questions later policy?

The rules had changed and they were all scared, over-cautious, paranoid even. But he liked to think they were better than that. Better than flat-out murdering strangers by the roadside and sure as hell better than what had been forced on the girl. He dreaded to think what fresh horror she might be put through if this went south ...

"Daryl!" he hollered suddenly, knowing with certain dread that he was too late in reacting as another of the shooters appeared as if from nowhere.

A shot was fired, but it was their adversary who fell to the ground with a howl and then Shane and T-Dog were beside them – Shane with a vise-like grip on Carl's arm.

"Get to the fleet!" Shane urged, firing off another round and sending yet another dark figure diving for cover. "Go, go, GO!"

And then Rick was running. They all were.

Reaching the Jeep, he hurried Carl into the front and then turned to help Daryl lay the girl out across the backseat. "Get in!" he shouted to the hunter, sliding himself into the driver's seat.

"Said I wasn't leavin' the bike," came the response, before Daryl grabbed his crossbow again and took off without waiting for an argument.

"Shit!" Rick thumped the steering wheel, looking round to see Shane pull his own ride up alongside and yell at him out the window to get moving. T-Dog had already pulled the pick-up truck out onto the road, though he was idling there without seeming to know whether to stay or go.

With his mind in over-drive, the sheriff looked from his son to the girl he now felt responsible for and then back to where Daryl had been forced to stop and fire a bolt from his crossbow. It sank easily into the thigh of a gunman with a bandana over his mouth and nose – though it only slowed him, instead of stopping his approach.

Rick wasn't even sure what he was thinking when he spotted the gas can, but he dove out of the Jeep to grab it anyway, despite Shane's loud protests. Finding it full, he climbed back inside and pushed it into Carl's arms.

"Don't get it on yourself," he warned his son breathlessly as he reached over him and wound down the window. Then, leaving Shane staring in disbelief, he revved the engine and sped between Daryl and the armed horde.

Why they hadn't just shot the redneck already he'd never know, but – as he ordered Carl to pour the contents of the can out the window and onto the ground – Rick realised it was a mistake that would cost the vigilantes dear.

"Daryl!" he yelled. "_Lighter!_"

As soon as he saw the flash of realisation in Daryl's shrewd eyes, Rick was already cutting a sharp u-turn and watching the hunter reach into a pocket to produce a lighter, spark up and pitch it with a deft flick of his wrist.

The dancing line of flames racing towards the pumps gave Daryl just enough time to scramble onto the motorcycle, gun it to life and race after the others as they got the hell out of Dodge. And, just like at the Centre for Disease Control only on a smaller scale, a wave of heat bellowed through the air as the whole place went up.

The massive fireball engulfed the entire gas station, splintering the old mainly wooden building in an instant and shattering car windows before the engines caught too.

Daryl drew alongside Rick's open window with a grin and whooped at the sound of more explosions behind them. "No naked flames, motherfuckers!"

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	2. Two: Pleas to the unseen

**A/N: Big thanks to those reading and especially to the review button-clickers - you're awesome! :) I should warn that updates won't always be this swift - I've got a bit of a crazy work schedule coming up, but thought I'd indulge while I got the chance ... As always, would love to hear your thoughts!**

* * *

**Two: Pleas to the unseen**

_**Ten days earlier**_

The hot rays seared down onto shoulders that had long passed the point of being sun-kissed and turned a deep golden brown beneath the sweat-streaked grime, blood and road-dust, accumulated over many a perilous mile.

"Dan?" Ava McClaine said, as brightly as she could in the circumstances. "Danny? We gotta get moving, honey."

His head turned slowly and the once warm brown eyes she was used to seeing crinkled up at the corners with laughter met her own green ones. Something in the dull, almost lifeless gaze chilled her to the core and she took in the blood all over again as it still seeped through the bandages that were wrapped inexpertly round his head. It was caked to the side of his usually handsome, now gaunt and battered face, and his bruised knuckles too. More stained his already filthy shirt and jeans.

The memory of how he'd all but snarled at her when she'd tried to clean him up still haunted her. He hadn't spoken more than two words since.

Not unless you counted the screams when he allowed himself to sleep.

"Dan, we gotta go," she said, intending to sound firm and yet she was painfully aware of the underlying plea.

Fraught minutes and hours, each one heavy with potential to be the last, had somehow shifted into a relentless blur of surreal lost days and nights when terror fought off all but the most desperately needed sleep. A few captured moments of unconsciousness, when nightmares were just intangible workings of the mind and not walking reality, were still to be grateful for – even if it grew ever more difficult to say whether the waking was a blessing or a curse.

It was with that in mind that Ava tilted her head back in frustration, sending her long mahogany hair tumbling almost to her waist as she squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. She heaved a sigh, contemplating her next move and trying to second-guess every single thought that passed through her head. There would be less chance of rest now than ever and it was tempting to aim a kick at the blown out tyre which had caused them to plough off the road in the first place. But, realising that a long walk was looking increasingly likely to lie ahead, she thought the better of it. A broken foot wouldn't exactly help their cause.

Instead, the young woman moved to lean through the open driver's window and popped the trunk before going to haul the bags out onto the roadside. She hated the prospect of abandoning the heap of junk that had been the closest thing to a home for the last while, but with no spare tyre there was simply no choice and she forced herself to act quickly. The longer she hesitated, the harder it would be to move on.

"Leave me," Dan mumbled when she opened the passenger door, his voice sounding like he'd forgotten how to use it properly. That seemed to be all he ever said to her anymore.

For a second, the urge to just crumple to her knees in the dirt was almost overwhelming. But she steeled herself with gritty determination. They'd made it this far, lasted this long and when the odds were far from stacked in their favour. Damned if she'd sit back and let that change now.

"No."

Flat rejection was all she could muster. She used to give him reasons - everything they had to hope for, to live for. Lies, all of it. There was nothing left, she knew that now. Just like she knew she couldn't bear to face it alone.

"Please," she whispered to him. Hell, to anyone listening.

* * *

"You think we'll ever see people again? Proper people?" the boy was asking his mother, watching from beneath a man-sized sheriff's hat as she chopped vegetables for the pot. "Apart from us, I mean?"

"It's hard to say, Carl. I just don't know," came the eventual answer, gentle yet useless when it came down to it.

And that was a big part of the whole fucking problem, wasn't it? There was so much they just didn't know. A boy could look to his parents all he liked, but at the end of the day, they knew precious little more about this new world than he did.

"I sure hope so," the boy continued. "That'd be cool. Wouldn't it, mom?"

"Cool," Lori echoed, but the response was automatic and without the sincerity of her son.

That was the advantage age gave you – you knew better than to take the optimistic approach. Trying to humour the kid might have been her way of handling things, but ultimately she knew better than to wish for such an unknown quantity. More people meant more mouths to feed and that was probably the best case scenario.

You took in more people, you brought more risk down on everyone. Fact. More chance of attracting attention, more chance of those differences of opinion that wouldn't have mattered once but could now escalate out of all control in a second. A cross word in another time and place and no more would be said. In the here and now, punches got thrown and trigger fingers could be quick to itch. Too quick. Shane Walsh, as he turned his attention from the woman and child that could have been his and went back to cleaning guns, knew that better than most.

The rules had changed, he knew that too. They could band together when it suited them, but that didn't change the baseline fact it was every man for himself these days. The boy, he would just have to learn the hard way ...

"You reckon we got ourselves enough?"

Shane started at the rough voice, trying to wipe the caught expression from his face. He may have been a cop, but he'd sure be a shit poker player. "What?" he demanded, wondering how the redneck could have read his thoughts on the prospect of having to add to their number – until he saw the small dead animals he was holding.

"Food," Daryl clarified, impatience clear on his face as he shouldered his crossbow and glared at him like he was going soft in the head. "This look like enough?"

"If scabby squirrel's all you got, ain't like we got much damn choice."

"What? You got company you're lookin' to impress or shit? Hold on, I'll see if I can just rustle up some steaks," the group's resident hunter shot back, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "You don't like it, don't eat it. Asshole."

And as Daryl stormed off muttering to himself, for once Shane bit his tongue – knowing that if he was going to have to be part of the plans to refuel their vehicles, he didn't want one of their group too pissed to back him up.

* * *

Somehow, she'd got him on his feet and moving – even if that just meant trudging along with his head down and keeping two steps behind her like some kind of chastened wife. Not that she could blame him.

Ava couldn't imagine what was going through his mind and wasn't even sure she wanted him to talk about it. Blocking everything out, focusing solely on keeping them alive from one day to the next, that was all that was keeping her going. If she let down the mental barricades, the only protection she had from the horrors they'd witnessed, she wasn't sure she could keep a hold on her own sanity.

But, knowing that Dan was retracting further and further into himself and slipping ever further from her, she had to do something to try to bring him back. She needed him.

"You need to eat," Ava said, shooting a sidelong glance at her silent companion as they sat where she'd dropped exhausted by the roadside. If she hadn't stopped, she was sure he'd have kept walking without so much as a whimper until he wore his feet to stumps. But now, he wouldn't even lift the spoon she'd placed in his less than appetising bowl of cold beans. She'd given him more than his share of the last of their scavenged tins too, leaving only a few heaped spoonfuls to scrape onto her own dish. "Dan, eat the goddamn beans."

He didn't even acknowledge her - it was like she simply didn't exist. Maybe she didn't. Maybe neither of them did. They hadn't seen a soul, living, dead or anywhere in between. Not since ... She didn't want to think about that. Maybe they'd died back then after all. Maybe this was Purgatory, since it really couldn't be Heaven and surely the beans wouldn't be cold if it was Hell.

She couldn't help the little snort of laughter at the absurdity of her thoughts, but it came out with a choked sob that was equally determined to escape as she threw down her spoon and buried her face in her hands. In the whirlpool of emotions that engulfed her, tears flowed freely but the laughs proved to be in short supply after all.

Maybe she was losing her mind, just like Dan.

She started awake with a little gasp, horrified to realise she'd been exhausted enough to let down her defences and cry herself to sleep. What threw her more though was the slow dawning of the fact she'd somehow ended up with her head cradled in Dan's lap. That she caught the swift retraction of his hand suggested he'd been stroking her tangled hair, but that glassy look hadn't left his pained eyes. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope though ...

"It's getting dark," Ava mumbled awkwardly, her sleep-clouded mind barely allowing her to state the obvious and push herself to her feet at the same time. "I don't think we should stay out in the open."

Without a word, Dan stood and gathered up the heaviest bag to sling it over his shoulder as she surveyed the road ahead and took in the sign for a gas station three miles up ahead. She didn't have to drag him to his feet or push the bag into his hands. He didn't tell her she should leave him.

So, offering him the tiniest of smiles, she slipped a hand through his arm and led the way.

* * *

"But I don't see why I can't go! I want to see what's out there ..."

"Yeah? You wanna end up in its guts too?" Shane growled at the youngster. "I'll tell you what's out there, Carl – walkers that want to strip the flesh from your bones and eat you the hell up-"

"That's _enough!_" Lori intervened sharply, stepping between her son and the deputy sheriff as they glowered at each other like children across a playground. At least one of them had an excuse. "Shane, he is eleven years old – he does _not_ need to hear that."

"Really? 'Cause seems to me that's exactly what he needs to hear, Lori," came the retort as he refused to back down. "Maybe you molly-coddlin' the boy's what got him fixin' to go explorin' in the first place."

She stiffened in anger, opened her mouth to speak and then thought the better of what she'd been about to lash out with. "I don't need you telling me how to raise my son. He has a father," she said finally. The words might have been calmer than she'd first intended, but the barb visibly struck a nerve just the same. "Carl, get back to the house. Now, please."

"But I want to _go_," the boy whined, ignoring the stern order thinly veiled as a polite request. "Come on, please, mom - Shane's right, I need to see what's out there-"

"Didn't say that – said you needed to _hear_ it," Shane cut him off, jabbing a finger in his small face. "Don't you go twistin' my words, Carl."

"You can't treat me like a little kid any more. Dad even said so! And he's going, so why can't I?"

"You think I need the two of you out there to worry about?" Lori tried changing tack, crouching down in front of her son and cupping his cheek in her hand, only to have him shrug her off in a display of temper that – for all its childishness - still hurt. "I'd rather have you mad at me and in one piece than have it on my conscience, if something bad happened, that I let you go just to keep you happy. I'm sorry if you don't understand that. Maybe one day, when you're grown-up, you will."

Straightening up as Carl huffed out his frustration and stormed off, she watched him go and heaved a sigh of her own before shifting her gaze to deliberately ignore Shane. Instead, she focused on watching her husband as he and Daryl loaded up the fleet of vehicles they were going to be taking on their mission. But she could feel dark eyes boring into the back of her skull and tensed at the sound of heavy footsteps drawing close up behind her.

"On second thoughts ... Maybe if he saw what's really out there, he'd quit treatin' this shit like one big video game. You ever think about _that_, Lori?"

She did actually. But right then, all she could think about was doing whatever it took to keep her son safe. That and the venom in Shane's parting shot and how she'd ever allowed things to get so messed up between them.

But most of all, just please, God, keep her boy safe.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	3. Three: Losing battle

**Three: Losing battle**

_**Ten days later.**_

Even trying to tune it out, all Daryl could hear – all he had heard from the second he'd killed the engine of his bike – was Lori's goddamn hysterics over her son. He got why she'd be pissed in the first place. Hell, he was too. Kid was nothing but a liability tagging along like that. But wailing all over him when he was still in one fucking piece ...

Rolling his eyes, the hunter left Rick to deal with his wife and stalked to the Jeep, waiting until he'd managed to pull their still unconscious passenger out of the backseat before rounding on the others.

"Y'all think maybe the domestic could fuckin' wait?" he demanded, interrupting some kind of row over just whose fault it was that Carl had wandered off and stunning those who hadn't been part of the unscheduled rescue mission into silence. He could imagine how it must look to them – a half-dead, half-naked girl sprawled in his arms, her head lolling back before he tried boosting her into a more comfortable position.

"W-Who the hell is _she_?" Lori asked, her eyes flitting from Daryl and his burden to her husband and back again. She was already retreating from the intruder in their midst, helpless as she was, and pulling her son with her.

"We don't know," Rick started to explain. "We found her dumped at the gas station-"

"And you brought her _here_? What if she's been bit?"

"Jeez, Olive Oyl, you're the only one to think of that," Daryl said, his tone laced with heavy sarcasm as he shifted the weight in his arms again. It wasn't like he was exactly thrilled by the prospect of opening up their group to newcomers either - it had taken him long enough to learn to tolerate those already in it. But the look of disgust on Lori's face, when she had to be able to see how badly hurt the girl was, just didn't sit right with him. "Hershel needs to see her. Ain't no one askin' for your help."

* * *

His brows knitted in concern, the elderly veterinarian emerged from the spare bedroom where he had instructed Daryl to carry their unexpected guest and found both the hunter and Rick waiting in the hallway for news.

"Well, we don't need to worry about her turning," Hershel said. "There's no sign of any walker bites. Plenty of other injuries but, physically at least, concussion's probably the worst of it. Maggie's trying to get her cleaned up a bit before she comes round."

"That's ... that's good, right?" Rick said, with an unsure look on his face given the older man's own evident reservations. "Means she's not a threat."

"Maybe not directly. But we know nothing about this girl, her circumstances, or whatever godless animals did this to her. I'm still just a vet, not a doctor – this isn't my area. But that young lady has been _brutally_ attacked. In all likelihood, more than once. Makes my heart sick to think of it," Hershel admitted. "And those responsible ... They're dangerous men, Rick, and in a world that doesn't answer to the law. I'm not saying you should have left her, but you need to consider that someone may come after her. We have the safety of our own people to think about. Your wife and my daughters included."

Folding his arms across his chest and giving a heavy sigh, Rick nodded as he processed that. It was something that had already crossed his mind.

"With or without the girl, they might come anyway," he pointed out. "They went straight to open hostility at the gas station, no questions asked."

"Wasn't exactly what you'd call a proportional response," Daryl added wryly.

"What kind of people see the world gone to hell the way it has and still manage to turn on their own kind?" the vet demanded, anger flashing in eyes. "Times like this, I wonder if we brought this ... this _plague_ on ourselves."

"Bullshit," the hunter scoffed, abandoning even his usual half-hearted efforts to control his colourful tongue in front of the man who had opened his home to them and who seemed to command a certain respect with his gentlemanly ways. "You think that girl in there _deserved_ to be raped? You want to put your faith in some so-called higher power who'd bring _that_ on her? 'Cause if that's the case, I dunno who's sicker – you or your damn God!"

Taken aback by the hunter's outburst, Rick and Hershel could only watch as he stormed off, muttering to himself under his breath – as was his wont, when his frustrations got the better of him. They all knew he was struggling to adapt to life within their group, surrounded by people he probably wouldn't normally have associated with in the days before the walkers.

"That wasn't what I meant," Hershel began, evidently concerned that he had touched some unforeseen nerve.

But Rick shook his head. "Not your fault. Guess we're all working on short fuses right now, some shorter than others. Let me know when the girl comes round. I'd like to talk to her."

"Just take it easy with the questions. By the looks of her, she's going to need food, rehydration and plenty of rest, Rick – not an interrogation. Go on now, go be with your family. I'll call when she's awake."

* * *

At first, there was only darkness and the dull ache that seemed to be everywhere all at once. But, by the time the room slowly swam into some kind of focus, she was aware that her muscles were screaming and the pounding in her head was swiftly racing to catch up with her heart as it threatened to beat right out of her chest.

Taking quick, shallow breaths and finding them desperately lacking when it came to trying to get herself under control, she glanced around sharply and bit her already stinging lip to keep from crying out when it felt like the movement would split her head in two. Panic was close to overwhelming her, despite the seemingly homely surroundings. She had no idea where she was or how she'd come to be there.

"Hey, take it easy," a soft soothing voice tried to calm her, making her head whip round painfully again. "It's okay. Really, no, you shouldn't try to get up ... Y'all are safe here, I promise."

Even as she struggled to untangle herself from the rumpled cotton sheets, she shied away from the hand that reached out as if to pat her arm. "Don't touch me!" she rasped, her throat rough with dehydration. "Stay away!"

The hand retracted and was held up in peace. "Okay, just calm down. No one's going to hurt you here and that was a real nasty bang to the head you took - you really should lay back."

Bang ... Numbly, she reached up a trembling hand and touched the back of her head lightly, wincing when her fingertips found the lump there. "Where am I? How did I get here?

"Please, at least lay back. You're bound to be feeling pretty dizzy right now. I'm Maggie. Some of our group found you at a gas station while they were looking for supplies. They brought you here. This is my dad's farm-"

"Dan ... Where's Dan?" she interrupted frantically, her voice rising in her sudden urgency. "Dan!"

"I don't know who that is," the concerned looking young woman in front of her tried to explain. "I don't think there was anyone else-"

"There _had_ to be! I have to go, I have to find him ... Please, let me _go_!" Struggling out of bed and onto her feet, she first recoiled at the realisation she was only wearing a shirt that certainly wasn't hers, then found her legs barely steady enough to hold her up and staggered even as her stomach rolled and bile rose in her throat. Her hand, thrown out in a bid to steady herself, caught the bedside cabinet and inadvertently swept the few items it held to the floor. The crash only helped fresh pain flare in her head and then somehow she was falling heavily to her knees, her fingertips curling into the rug as she tried to shake off the dizziness. "I h-have to go ..."

"Dad, come quick!" The girl who had called herself Maggie called out to her father in alarm, throwing open the door and shouting again before hurrying to kneel by her side. "Deep breaths," she advised, her tone almost scolding. "I _told_ you to take it easy."

Everything hurt. Her head, her ribs, her back ... Elsewhere. And it was that thought that made her sick to her stomach all over again. She closed her eyes against the burning tears as more and more memories came seeping back into her clouded mind.

"I can't do this anymore ..." she whispered. "I just ... can't."

* * *

At the crash from upstairs, Lori knew herself that the look on her face had to be one part fear and the other some sort of vindication. Regardless of what that said about her. Her priority was her family and she made no apology for that. And even if she doubted that the others would believe her for a second, she knew she would take no pleasure in being right if the stranger in their makeshift home came stumbling down those stairs as a walker.

She almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the thought. As if they'd have time for petty point-scoring if that was the case. Nonetheless, she didn't want to be right about the dangers of letting outsiders in. There had been a time when she would have welcomed new people with open arms. At one time, that might have meant hope. For the future. For humanity, for Christ's sake – however grandiose that sounded. But that was a time before crossed purposes and flared tempers, before rations and rows.

Balancing the equilibrium of their group was hard enough at the best of times. More people just meant more opinions and more mouths to voice them. No, she was only being practical – they couldn't be expected to take in every waif and stray that came their way. They just ... couldn't.

"Rick," she started in alarm, when her husband made to follow the vet at the shout from above them.

"I told ya, Lori, Hershel says she ain't bit. You think he'd have left Maggie up there alone with her if there was any doubt? Girl's in no fit state to be a threat to anyone – she's probably just disorientated. Scared," he said, trying to take the same patient, reasonable tone she might use on their son. She wondered fleetingly if Carl found it just as frustrating as she did. "Waking up in a strange place after what she's been through, nothin' but strange faces ... It's only to be expected she'd be kinda shook up. It'll be okay."

"None of this is _okay_," she hissed, hating being made to feel like the bad guy. By him, her own guilty conscience, or anyone else.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


End file.
